Challenge Accepted
by Mustard Yellow Sunshine
Summary: Grumpy and bent on retaliation, Kagome forwards Inuyasha a spam email offering to enlarge a certain part of his anatomy. He takes it as a personal challenge and decides to prove her very, very wrong. (AU) (Contains mature, explicit content.)


**Author's Note:** WARNING! Thar be lemons in these here waters. So like, you know, bring a life jacket. (But seriously: mature, explicit content ahead.)

Another thing that's worth noting: This fic was inspired by some silly headcanons about StoatsandWeasels' story, _Phony Digits_. (So basically, y'all can blame this hot mess on the headcanon creators: StoatsandWeasels, GrapefruitWannabe, and Ryupioupiou.) Though it draws inspiration from _Phony Digits_ , it's not actually set in that universe—this is its own independent story.

Hope you enjoy!

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Tilting her head back and pinching her nose closed with a bloody wad of napkins, Kagome glared at the fluorescent ceiling lights of her office and took mental stock of her day. Now that she thought back on it, a clear you-should-have-just-stayed-in-bed pattern emerged. She started mentally tabulating.

1\. She'd woken up to a broken coffee maker. Her attempts at cajoling, jiggling, threatening, and smacking the appliance back into working order had not actually fixed it, leaving her utterly coffee-less. That should have been her first clue that the rest of her day would be a slow descent into hell.

2\. Inuyasha had been particularly grouchy that morning—the dumb jerk didn't even drink coffee, so really, what did _he_ have to be grouchy about? NOTHING!—and they'd bickered almost non-stop as they each got ready for work. It wasn't their usual brand of teasing, light-hearted bickering, though; it had a subtle but real edge of irritation, an impatience that thickened the air between them. She'd tried to reason it away as nothing more than a bad morning, but she felt a distinct twinge when, instead of their customary goodbye kiss, they'd parted with nothing more than a clipped "see you" to each other.

3\. It started raining while she waited at the bus stop. Normally this would have been fine, since she kept her umbrella stashed in her purse. But this wasn't normal rain: it wasn't falling in a downward trajectory like normal rain did—it was a drippy, misty, ambient veil of rain against which her umbrella was useless. Her hair was now a wavy, frizzy mess, and her face and coat were thoroughly damp by the time the bus arrived.

4\. There had been a bad traffic accident on her bus route, creating a four-mile backup that turned a normally fifteen-minute bus ride into an _hour_ and fifteen minutes. Needless to say, she was late for work.

5\. Because she was late for work, she didn't have time to stop at the coffee kiosk on the first floor of her office building. She'd had to power walk right past it, the wafting scent of espresso reminding her that she'd been rendered coffee-less _again_. This should have been her second big clue that today was destined to be a reenactment of _Dante's Inferno_.

6\. No sooner had she gotten settled in her office than Hojo popped into the doorway like a spring-loaded Keebler elf. One look at his radiant smile had Kagome fighting off the urge to bang her head against her desk. On a normal day, she might have felt guilty for that urge, but today (being completely un-caffeinated), she was just pleased that she hadn't audibly groaned.

Hojo was a sweet person, really: polite, sincere, relentlessly cheerful—and by the end of every conversation with him, Kagome was grinding her teeth behind a very forced smile. Talking to Hojo sometimes felt like eating tablespoons of pure sugar: way, _way_ too sweet to be palatable.

She'd hoped his visit was just to offer a "good morning" and a few minutes of chit-chat, but she wasn't that lucky. Still sporting that huge smile (and teeth whiter than any teeth had the right to be), he'd announced that they had both been assigned to work on the same project: overseeing the repair work of the Harumi Bridge. "Boss wants a few engineers on it to handle the scope of the work," he'd said. "Isn't this great? We get to partner up!"

Oh. Joy.

Kagome had forced her face into what she hoped was a smile and not a grimace, and replied, "Yeah, great," all while thinking that she'd never been less equipped for her job. Civil engineer? Ha! Her civility was running on fumes.

7\. When she'd tried to print a document, the office printer jammed for no discernible reason, and no amount of tray adjustments (or mumbled curses) fixed the problem. In a rare fit of temper, she'd kicked the stupid thing, which did not fix the printer, but _did_ give her a sore toe.

8\. After several hours of compiling and reviewing cost estimates for the Harumi Bridge project— _without a drop of caffeine in her body_ —she'd made the monumental mistake of accepting Hojo's offer to accompany him on a coffee run. She'd practically leapt over her desk in eagerness and, she liked to imagine, with the flawless grace of an Olympic pole vaulter, but more likely with the crazed desperation of a junkie.

Chatting inanely, they'd gone downstairs to the coffee kiosk, ordered their coffee to go, and were crossing the lobby back to the elevators when it happened. Kagome dropped her purse; she and Hojo simultaneously bent down to pick it up; in his gentlemanlike zeal, he was quicker on the draw and got there first; purse in hand, he sprung upright while Kagome was still bent forward—and bashed the back of his head right into Kagome's nose. Starbursts of pain ignited across her face, and blood gushed from her nostrils, dribbling down her mouth and chin to land in droplets on the tiled floor.

But the worst part? As her head whipped back from the impact, she lost her grip on her coffee cup. It flew out of her hand, the to-go lid dislodging in midair, and the coffee—her beautiful, hard-won coffee—arced out in a magnificent fountain-spray of liquid… that landed with a splatter on the floor.

"Oh _no_ ," Hojo said with a wince, one hand rubbing the back of his head, the other still clutching her purse, "Kagome, I'm sorry, I'm _so sorry_ , I didn't realize—if I'd known that—I'm _so sorry_ , are you hurt? Do you need a tissue? Listen to me, of course you do, you're bleeding. I'm so sorry. Hold on, I'll get you some napkins."

While Kagome held her nose-turned-giant-throb and stared blankly at the coffee spreading across the floor, Hojo hurried back to the kiosk to get napkins. He quickly returned, still mumbling a string of apologies, and offered her a wad of what looked to be at least 50 napkins. She took it and gingerly applied it to her still-bleeding nose.

"Kagome, are you all right? It's not broken, is it? I'm so, _so_ —"

Kagome held up her hand, more to stem his babble than to reassure him. "I'b fine," she said. "Id nod broken. Jud dore."

Which was at least partly true. Already the initial, vicious throbbing was lessening to a dull buzzing ache in the bridge of her nose. It was still bleeding pretty badly, though, so she kept the wad of napkins pressed against her nostrils. She really didn't need blood stains on her blouse on top of everything else.

Hojo did his best to sop up the spilled coffee (he even offered to buy Kagome a new cup, which she declined, figuring the universe would just deprive her of it anyway), and then they made it back to the elevator (Hojo's stream of apologies never waning the entire eight floors up), and then Kagome was blissfully alone behind the closed door of her office (after delivering a forceful, "Forget it, Hojo, it's fine—I'm taking an early lunch, okay?").

And there she was, leaning back in her office chair, glaring up at her ceiling, pinching her bloody nose and wondering what else could possibly go wrong today. She half-expected the fluorescent lights to spontaneously shatter and rain broken glass on her face. With an aggravated huff, she eased the napkins away and slowly lowered her chin, resting a finger under her nose in case it was still bleeding. Nose and finger stayed dry, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Experimentally, she took a few delicate sniffs through her nostrils, and was pleased to find that it didn't hurt too much. She felt a teeny bit congested—there was probably some swelling—and the bridge of her nose still ached some, but it was nothing a couple Advil couldn't fix. She very cautiously placed her thumb and forefinger on either side of her nose and gave it a little wiggle. It didn't feel _pleasant_ , but it didn't cause any sharp pains.

Heaving another sigh of relief, Kagome set the wad of bloodied napkins down on her desk and grimaced at the sheer amount of red staining the material. What a mess. Rather like her entire morning.

She snorted, then winced and scowled. Wanting to commiserate with someone (and _maybe_ wanting to talk to a _particular_ someone), she pulled her cell phone out of her purse, snapped a quick picture of the bloody napkins on her desk, and attached it to a message: "This has been my morning. How's yours?" She sent the message off to Inuyasha. Setting her phone on the desk and throwing the napkins into a nearby trashcan, she rebooted her computer and decided to check her email. Then maybe she'd scan Yelp for some lunch options. She usually brought food from home, or occasionally ate at the curry joint a few blocks away (she could only eat curry by herself, since Inuyasha couldn't handle the stuff), but maybe today she'd treat herself to something nicer. She definitely deserved it.

A couple minutes later, just as she was typing in her email password, her phone buzzed with an incoming message. Surprised—Inuyasha wasn't the type to answer texts promptly—and grinning, Kagome grabbed her phone and opened the message.

' _Is that why you were acting so bitchy this morning?_ '

Kagome's grin evaporated as a frown took its place. Holding her phone with both hands, her thumbs flew across the screen. ' _ **What on earth are you talking about?**_ '

' _Sheesh, you're the one who sent the picture. The blood? Started your period at work, huh? Sucks. I didn't smell anything this morning, but that explains the mood._ '

Kagome's eyebrows shot up. "Oh, _hell no_. He did not just—"

But he had. Kagome reread his first message—"Bitchy? BITCHY? Oh, I'll _show_ him bitchy!"—and felt the last link in the chain of her dangerously-corroded temper snap. She started typing in a flurry.

' _ **I know I've told you this before, but it's been awhile, so I'll tell you again: you're an idiot.**_ '

'… _Wtf is your problem?_ '

' _ **I'm married to an idiot, that's my problem! Why do men think ANY negative emotion is a sign of menstruation? I'm not on my period, you jerk! And even if I was, why in the hell would I send you a PICTURE of it? That's GROSS, and you're gross for thinking it! AND A JERK.**_ '

' _Says the person who just sent me a picture of blood. And if that's not the reason, wtf was that picture, then?_ '

' _ **Oh nothing, just a gaping wound I got this morning. I'm sure the bleeding will stop soon, and then maybe I'll feel less BITCHY.**_ '

' _Kagome, knock it off with the drama queen routine and tell me why you're bleeding._ '

' _ **Jerk**_ _._ '

' _Bitch... Did you hurt yourself?_ '

' _ **Buttmunch.**_ '

 _'Answer the question.'_

 _ **'Dingbat.'**_

' _Goddammit, get over yourself and answer the damn question. Did you hurt yourself?_ '

' _ **I don't know, can bitchy people bleed?**_ '

' _ARE. YOU. HURT?_ '

' _ **Maybe. I'll let you know when I'm feeling less bitchy.**_ '

Kagome didn't consider herself a resentful person, but she couldn't deny the slightly vengeful satisfaction she felt as she sent the last message. She could picture her husband's reaction as he read it, too: jaw clenched, eyebrow twitching, ears flat against his head in irritation. Inuyasha was protective to a fault, and she knew her evasions had to be stabbing at every last one of his nerves. Normally she would have done her best to reassure him, but today?

She smirked. Today she was feeling bitchy.

With a startling buzz, her phone began vibrating in her hands, the screen lighting up and flashing her husband's caller ID: "Sit Boy!"

Kagome hesitated for only a second, then ruthlessly hit the "ignore call" button, and then, for good measure, shut off her phone. Let him stew in it for awhile.

She set the phone back on her desk. After a minute or two of glaring at its mockingly blank screen, she snatched it back up and put it in her purse, then slid her purse under her desk. Forcing her attention back to her computer and the half-filled log-in screen of her email account, she finished typing in her password and hit "enter."

" _That explains the mood,_ " she muttered under her breath as the page loaded. "Idiot. Maybe I'll make curry for dinner tonight. _Extra spicy_ curry. Then we'll see who's acting bitchy."

Her inbox finally loaded, and she immediately noticed two things: 1) most of the unread emails were spam, and 2) the ones that weren't spam were bill reminders.

She felt an eyelid tic coming on.

She seriously should have just stayed in bed today.

With an annoyed sigh and unnecessarily-forceful clicks of the mouse, she went about sorting through what emails should be deleted and what should be saved. One email's subject line read, "+HUGE+ T0rped0 4 y0u!" With an eye roll, she selected the email and moved the cursor towards the trash icon at the top of the page—

And then stopped as a thought struck her.

Ohh, this was even better than the spicy curry idea.

A smirk tugged at her lips as, instead of clicking on the "delete" button, she hit "forward". When the email opened in a new window, she scanned its contents and laughed:

"Experience the results you've always wanted with a MASSIVE scientific breakthrough: Our Doctor-Approved Pill Will Actually Expand, Lengthen And Enlarge Your Penis. With this pill, You will be the Envy of other Men and become a POWERFUL Sex God to the Women in your life. Her satisfaction 100% GUARANTEED!"

Smirk now positively evil, she typed into the forwarding message field, "I wasn't going to say anything, but you should really look into this, honey. :)"

Then she hit send, and off it went to Inuyasha's inbox.

 _On my period, huh? Grow a dick, buddy._

She'd almost be willing to give up coffee for the rest of the week if it meant she could see his reaction. Leaning back in her chair, she stretched her arms above her head and grinned at the ceiling. "Game, set, and match."

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"... Oh, _hell no_. No. She did not just—"

But she had. Inuyasha skimmed through the email a second time—" _You should look into this_? WHAT THE HELL!"—and nearly threw his cell phone out into the rain as his temper wobbled on the precarious ledge of his patience.

He'd been about to call his wife for the third time in a row (knowing full well he'd just get her voicemail) when his phone buzzed and an email notification popped onto the screen. All he'd noticed at first was that Kagome had sent it, so he'd immediately opened it without bothering to wonder 1) why she'd emailed him when she never sent him emails, and 2) why she'd emailed him when she was so pissed that she was ignoring his calls.

He wished he'd read the subject line before opening the damn thing. Then maybe he wouldn't have read it, and subsequently wouldn't feel like crushing the phone in his hand. "Huge torpedo? _I wasn't going to say anything_? The fuck, Kagome?!"

And she STILL hadn't told him if she was hurt!

Uttering a low growl and tossing his phone onto the passenger seat, Inuyasha slumped back into the driver's seat of his truck and tugged at the too-tight tie around his neck. He _hated_ ties. They weren't a normal part of his work wear: he was a contractor, and contractors didn't sign up for that shit. He normally wore sturdy jeans, t-shirts, and button-down flannel. But today he and the project architect—who also happened to be his business partner and friend, Sango—had to walk investors through the work site: they wanted to see construction progress and get an update on cost estimates. Sango had told him in no uncertain terms that he had to look "business professional."

But he was a _contractor_ , for fuck's sake, not some simpering accountant. Jeans and t-shirts _were_ business professional for him. But somehow, to his irritation, he found himself wearing a neatly pressed white collared shirt, a deep purple tie, charcoal slacks, and shoes that pinched his toes so badly that he was convinced they'd been manufactured in hell.

And to top that off, he'd been forced into this clown suit for the sole purpose of impressing people he could barely tolerate. He didn't like dealing with the stuffed suits, the owners and investors (or "the shitlords" as he'd come to call them); that was Sango's gig. But this was a particularly anal group. Ever since the start of the project, they'd had their hands in every single part of the construction process, required clearance for every single decision, and clearly had no respect for his ability to make independent, professional judgment calls. Inuyasha's patience was wearing incredibly thin. He couldn't abide micromanagers, and these people were the worst he'd ever seen.

He'd been dreading the investors' walk-through all week long, and it had been just as trying as he thought it would be—"Aren't those materials a little cheap? Wasn't this room supposed to be larger? Did you change the dimensions? Why haven't the city inspectors been through yet?" On and on and _on_. He'd thought it would never end, and had nearly bitten off his tongue trying to restrain his growing irritation.

But finally, _finally_ the walk-through ended, and Sango took the investors away to her on-site office to go over costs. He'd wasted no time in retreating to his truck for lunch and some blessed silence. No sooner had he settled into the driver's seat than his phone buzzed in his pocket, and he'd been met with the strangest text from Kagome. _"This has been my morning. How's yours?"_

And then all hell had broken loose.

Scowling, he gave his tie another sharp yank and glared at the phone lying innocuously on the seat next to him.

Kagome had been in a strange mood ever since that morning. She'd practically bitten his head off about "being louder than a fog horn" when he'd come into the kitchen for breakfast, and when he'd asked what the hell was wrong with her, she'd only mumbled something about "coffee". Her attitude had not improved as the morning progressed, which had only exacerbated his own bad mood about the impending day. They'd squabbled right up until they both left for work, and he'd felt a punch of disappointment in his gut when they'd parted without their goodbye kiss.

Truth be told, it hadn't just been a rough morning: it had been a rough _week_. They'd hardly spent any time together. He'd been working extra hours at the construction site in preparation for the walk-through, and she'd been so drained after work in the evenings that he was lucky if he could get complete sentences out of her.

Forget getting anything _else_.

His stomach muscles clenched hard at the thought, and his scowl darkened. It wasn't just the lack of sex—though that was a little frustrating—it was the general lack of _her_. He'd barely seen her all week. They hadn't had any real conversations; hadn't mindlessly watched TV entangled on the couch; hadn't gone for a walk; hadn't showered together; hadn't cooked dinner together; hadn't even so much as spooned at night. All week it had been the same thing: he came home well after dinner, she was already half-asleep in bed, they exchanged a few words while he undressed and _maybe_ shared a brief goodnight kiss, and then they both went to sleep—barely even brushing arms—until it all started again the next day.

He was living under the same roof with her and he _missed_ _his wife_.

Then her attitude this morning, and the argument erupting over _text message_ (they couldn't even fight in person these days), and her mocking hints that she'd been hurt ( _she'd better be fucking joking about that or I swear_ ), and then that fucking email (huge torpedo?!).

Almost compulsively, as though self-flagellation would cure his sour mood, Inuyasha swiped up his phone and reread the email Kagome had sent. A growl rumbled up from his chest, starting low and ending in a near-snarl. "I should look into it, huh?"

Her taunt—coupled with the zero-contact week from hell—ignited something fierce in him. It blazed up from his gut and raged along his nerve endings until his brain was buzzing with a fuming, agitated energy.

"Look into it?" he repeated, fingers tightening around the phone until his knuckles turned white. "Oh, just wait, Kagome. I'll show you 'satisfaction guaranteed'."

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After work that evening, as Kagome unlocked the front door of their condo, she held under one arm the box of a brand new coffee maker. She'd made a special trip to the store—where she had also gotten ingredients to make spicy curry—and now she had everything she needed for revenge _and_ fresh coffee in the morning!

Life was looking up.

The door swung open and she ambled inside, slipping off her work flats in the entryway before making her way to the kitchen, switching on lights as she went.

She set the coffee maker on the counter next to the sink, followed by the paper grocery bag hanging from her elbow. As she rifled through its contents, she suddenly realized that she might not get her curry revenge after all: recently Inuyasha had been coming home so late that she'd taken to cooking dinner only for herself. Odds were he'd grab something to eat on his way home from work.

That thought made her inexplicably melancholy. Frowning, she started to unload the bag.

A _bang_ —the sharp slam of a door—sounded down the hall, and Kagome jumped, a shriek lodging in her throat as she dropped the onion she'd been holding. It went rolling across the kitchen floor as hurried steps sounded in the hallway.

"What—"

She'd barely managed to turn towards the sound when Inuyasha marched into the kitchen, expression ferocious and eyes glaring.

"Inu—?"

She registered the tense curve to his brows, the clench of his jaw, his rain-dampened hair and shoulders, the flattering cut of his button-down collared shirt (why hadn't she noticed him wearing it this morning?), the tie hanging loosely from his neck, the dress shoes he hadn't bothered to take off. But it was the intent, predatory gleam in his eyes that sent her thoughts skittering and pinned her to the spot.

She _knew_ that look—she'd come to know it intimately since her wedding night. And like muscle memory, the sight of it immediately had her stomach twisting itself into delighted knots. She remembered, dimly, that she was irritated with him about something, but the sight of him stalking towards her drove it out of mind.

He never broke his stride until he stood right in front of her. Resting his hands against the kitchen counter on either side of her body, he leaned forward and forced her to retreat until the small of her back was pressed tightly against the counter's edge.

Nowhere to retreat to now. The thought sent a thrill all the way down to her toes.

His expression practically smoldered as he stared at her. He opened his mouth, eyes bright and intense. Her breath caught in her throat. And then—

Lips twisting in a familiar scowl, he said, "You idiot. You didn't even lock the door."

Her breath released like a deflated balloon. She blinked. "Um. Huh?"

He rolled his eyes at her. "You forgot to lock the door behind you. What if I'd been a burglar? You'd be in big trouble now."

It took her a second to process that. Then her eyes narrowed at the underlying condescension in his tone. "Good thing it was just a doofus, then."

He frowned, but didn't otherwise rise to her bait. Shifting forward slightly—drawing her attention to the swift flex of his biceps beneath his shirt—he edged one of his knees between hers. "Come to think of it, you're _still_ in big trouble. You—" He paused. His eyes narrowed momentarily, then darted across her face as though searching for something, and he said, "Are you hurt?"

Ah, now the reason for her earlier irritation was coming back to her. "You mean am I _on my period_?" she deadpanned, hands settling on her hips in the universal signal of feminine displeasure.

He growled at that. "No. I mean _are you hurt_? I can smell some of your blood. And you never bothered to explain that stupid picture."

Sometimes she forgot how strong his sense of smell really was. He could _still_ smell her blood? It had been hours since the bleeding stopped, and her nose barely even hurt now. When she didn't respond immediately, he prompted again, "Kagome?"

His tone may have been on the wrong side of overbearing, but his genuine concern was obvious to her, and it smoothed some of her ruffled feathers. She replied with a little more patience, "I'm fine, Inuyasha. Honestly. I just had a bloody nose at work. It wasn't a big deal."

Golden eyes narrowed and focused with laser intensity onto her nose, probing for any damage.

Rolling her eyes, she swatted at his shoulder to regain his attention. "I told you, _I'm fine_. Doesn't even hurt."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"... but how much did it bleed? Wait, did _all_ that blood in the picture come from your nose?"

"Inu _yasha_."

He must've heard the flash of steel in her tone, because he grumbled, "Okay, okay." A pause. "So... you're fine?"

A pronounced sigh. "Yes."

"It doesn't hurt? At all?"

"Nope. Everything's fine, promise."

He exhaled slowly and nodded, his frame visibly relaxing, shoulders losing some of their tension. She hadn't realized until now that he'd been so tense. Her brows puckered as she felt a twinge of guilt. Maybe she'd goaded his protective instincts a little more than she should have this morning.

She was just on the verge of offering an apology when he spoke.

"In that case," he said, voice dropping low, "why don't we start talking about that 'huge torpedo' you wanted me to _look into_?"

As he spoke, he moved his leg forward, slipping his thigh between hers—then pressing it firmly up against the warm juncture between her legs. Her eyes widened as her breath hitched and her mind blanked out. Her skirt rode up with the movement, baring the smooth expanse of her legs, and she could only latch onto one thought: just the flimsiest material—her panties, his slacks—separated his thigh from her body. On reflex, her thighs flexed around his, and he deliberately ground against her in response, forcing a gasp from her throat and causing a wash of tingles to spread across her limbs... and settle in one _particular_ place.

Had she been irritated? All she felt now was _hot_.

He leaned forward until his nose brushed hers and there was little more than a hair's breadth between their chests. Arching a dark eyebrow, he gritted out, "Want me to _look into_ an upgrade, huh? Funny, you've never complained about my performance before."

One of his hands settled on her waist, tugging at her blouse until it untucked from the waistband of her skirt. The material loosened enough for his hand to slip inside, his warm palm smoothing across her bare stomach, up to her ribcage. She gasped again and bit her lip to hold in a whimper.

She was mad at him, dammit! He didn't deserve a whimper!

"Unless," he continued, a spark of satisfaction lighting up his gaze, "it's been so long that you've forgotten?"

The hand stroking her side moved up to cup her right breast through her bra, palm cradling its weight while his fingers stroked and kneaded, thumb rubbing over her stiffening nipple. This time she did nothing to restrain the moan rising in her throat as her back arched, pushing her breast into his hand, encouraging his attentions. Her own hands rose to grip at his shirt, fisting the material just below his shoulders. Smirking now, he used a claw tip to carefully trace slow, maddening circles around her nipple. The touch instantly seared a burning trail from her breast down to the growing slickness between her legs.

He _knew_ what his claws did to her, damn him.

That claw was a weapon he knew how to wield: it would draw near her nipple only to veer away, then trace back and tantalize her with the prospect of being touched there… only to move away again, leaving the spot taut and unbelievably sensitive from anticipation. Her skin felt tight and hot, and at the moment she wanted nothing more than for her stupid bra to be _gone_ so she could feel his fingers directly against her skin. She made a small sound—of frustration or pleasure, she couldn't tell which—in the back of her throat, and pressed her breasts into his chest, seeking some kind of relief.

A soft growl rumbled in his chest—vibrating against her, nearly making her groan—and he dipped his head to press his lips against her ear. "Well, Kagome? Should we see how much _help_ I need?" The tip of his tongue slicked along the shell of her ear, before his fangs nipped and tugged at her earlobe.

Her fingers tightened their grip on his shirt. She opened her mouth to respond, but whatever words she'd intended to say were obliterated as he again ground his thigh into her, producing electric sparks of pleasure that sizzled across her body. Her hips instinctively bucked against him, thighs squeezing around his leg. Eyes closing on a whimper, she leaned into him and rested her overly-warm face against his neck. In the end she could only bring herself to nod vigorously in answer.

A low chuckle rolled through his chest. The hand toying with her breast moved again, caressing down her ribcage, trailing claw tips across her lower back, traveling slowly up her spine underneath the shirt. The same arm half-circled her waist and pulled her closer, his stance shifting to fit more than just his leg between her thighs—he parted them enough to accommodate his hips, and now the hardened ridge behind his fly was nestled perfectly against her.

Her teeth caught at her lower lip, and almost of its own accord, one of her legs lifted to wrap around the back of his knee, her foot rubbing sensuously up and down his calf. She drew her head back enough to look him in the eye, and the blatant hunger in his gaze started up a drumbeat of throbs between her legs.

He made a point of sniffing the air and smirking. Smug bastard. "I can always stop if you're _unsatisfied_ ," he said with mock concern.

This time _she_ growled. "Oh, shut up and get on with it." She grabbed his tie in one hand and gave it a solid tug, pulling him down to meet her lips.

Her entire body thrummed from the contact. Somehow kissing him always felt a little like coming home. The press of his mouth against hers was familiar and exhilarating all at once. She immediately parted her lips, and he growled his appreciation as his tongue slipped inside to taste and twine about hers. She hummed enthusiastically, angling her head to deepen the kiss and keep their mouths firmly together. The way their lips moved in perfect rhythm, the languid rasp of his tongue as it reacquainted itself with her mouth—and hers with his—had her toes curling in simultaneous contentedness and excitement.

He must have felt the same, because he sighed heavily into her mouth—his warmth passing into her, making her shiver—and his hand applied more pressure against her back, urging her to press even more intimately against him.

They spent several minutes this way, lips meeting and caressing, tongues leisurely exploring. She was the first to break away, her lips forging a burning path along the line of his jaw, down to his throat. She teased him with open-mouthed kisses, teeth nibbling at his skin, her tongue following after to soothe the flesh she'd agitated. Meanwhile her hands started massaging the line of his shoulders, stroking up the back of his neck and into his hair, fingernails scratching at his scalp.

His chest heaved against hers, breath coming in heavy pants. He didn't seem to realize it, but he was emitting a low, continuous rumble that reverberated in his chest and the back of his throat. When she gave a particularly hard nip to his neck, that rumble crescendoed to a snarl. His hands flew to her hips and gripped them tightly—then with one quick heave, he lifted her off her feet and sat her on the kitchen counter, positioning himself between her legs. Her skirt bunched up around her hips, and she only noticed the material insofar as she wished it was _off_.

He stared directly at her, eyes heavy-lidded as he began to carefully unbutton the front of her blouse. She noticed, bemusedly, that there was a fine trembling in his fingers, as though he was working very hard to restrain himself. When she realized why, she nearly grinned. Pretty early in their marriage, Kagome had established a rule: "you shred, rip, or otherwise destroy my clothing, and I get to replace it with something even more expensive." In other words: he ruined her clothes, and she was entitled to a shopping spree. The rule didn't always save her clothing, but it reduced the number of garments that fell victim to his impatient claws.

Finally he undid the last button, and slid the white blouse off her shoulders, down her arms, until it fell to the counter behind her. He took a moment to admire the sight she made—crisp white bra cupping full breasts; legs slightly spread beneath a dark maroon skirt that had hiked up so high she might as well not be wearing it; beautifully flushed skin; eager and inviting grey eyes staring back at him. Something primal and possessive flashed in his eyes, and then he was leaning forward to kiss the smooth lines of her collar bones, his hands drifting around her back to unclasp her bra. Her own fingers fisted in his hair, and with a long moan she dropped her head back, presenting her throat to him. He quickly took advantage and began scraping his fangs across her neck, beneath her jaw.

"Mm," she panted, his mouth fueling the burn between her legs, "Inuyasha..."

He only growled. Then the band of her bra went slack, and he was pulling the straps down and off her arms before throwing the material to the floor. She only had a moment to feel goosebumps ripple along the exposed skin of her breasts, tightening nipples which he'd already made sensitive—and then his mouth was closing over the peak of her left breast. He licked, then sucked, then tugged on her nipple with his teeth. Fangs scraped, tongue swirled. His right hand went to her neglected breast, squeezing and massaging, fingers pinching and stimulating the nipple.

A strangled whimper escaped her throat, spine arching as he _finally_ satisfied the area his claw had so mercilessly teased earlier. Hands gripping the sides of his head, she pulled him closer to her chest, reveling in the wash of sensation he created with each tug and scrape and squeeze.

Just when she was beginning to feel a little raw from his attentions, Inuyasha's mouth moved to her right breast, giving it the same treatment. His left hand dropped to her knee and slowly smoothed up her bare thigh. The searing heat of his fingers kept going up, up: bypassing her bunched skirt, gliding along her inner thigh, maneuvering beneath thin cotton panties, slipping through dark, soft curls, between delicate folds of skin—

Kagome nearly choked on her own breath, somehow managing to inhale and exhale simultaneously when two clawed fingers slid inside her body. Unhurried and assured—mapping out territory they had long since learned by heart—his fingers stroked their way deep inside. Sparks flashed across her vision; her thighs trembled against the urge to clamp together; her inner muscles clenched briefly around his fingers, aching at their maddeningly-restricted reach. It felt as though every last nerve in her body was attuned to the movement of those fingers, and she couldn't help crying out, "Inuyasha!"

At her cry, his mouth pulled away from her breast and he straightened his posture to better watch her face. Her hands fell away from his hair and gripped tightly at his shoulders, fingernails digging into his skin. An undeniable look of feral satisfaction lit his expression.

"Kagome," he husked, eyes holding hers, "does that feel good, baby?"

Breath shallow and heartbeat racing, she could only manage a nod and a slightly embarrassing mewling sound.

The grin lifting the corner of his mouth could only be described as cocky; but his gaze was focused and heated when he said, "It's about to get a lot better than 'good'."

And then he began moving his fingers, pumping them in and out in a steady rhythm. It was a pace designed to enflame: fast enough to leave her breathless, but just slow enough that she felt every tortuous motion, every twitch and flex and inch forward. Using the thumb of the same hand, he rubbed firmly against her clit with each pass, alternately applying pressure with his knuckle and the pad of his thumb.

Her hips jerked forward reflexively, and his other hand settled on her waist, holding her still atop the counter. The wet heat between her legs was practically molten now, fueled by each burning motion inside her, sending electric bolts of pleasure ricocheting through her body. She purposely squeezed her muscles around his fingers to intensify the feeling, and was rewarded with a sharp burst of pleasure. She didn't even bother to hold back the moaning cries welling up in her throat, echoing through the kitchen. Each moan was matched by a pleased growl of his.

Kagome couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so aroused and so _frustrated_ at the same time. She didn't want him to stop—might very well deck him if he tried—but she wanted _more_ of him too, wanted to feel him fill her in a way that his fingers couldn't.

Perhaps sensing this frustration, he carefully slipped a third finger inside and rubbed harder at her clit. Her resulting half-scream and hip-buck had his eyes practically glowing at her. He drew closer, feverishly kissing her neck and murmuring against her skin, "Come for me, baby."

It wasn't long before she did. Soon her muscles began tightening, contracting around his pumping fingers. There was a moment of suspended, breathless anticipation. Then a pulsing rush of wet heat; the rhythmic, ecstatic flex and release of muscle; and finally she saw starbursts flare behind her eyelids.

Long moments later—her body feeling impossibly loose and liquid—she opened her eyes, still struggling to catch her breath, and found with mild surprise that she'd slumped her torso against Inuyasha, who had his arms around her and was propping up her weight. His hands were running gently up and down her bare back, claw tips moving in lazy patterns. She relaxed even more, heaving a contented sigh as she nuzzled her cheek against the ball of his shoulder. She could hear the smile in his voice when he asked, "Satisfied?"

Without even lifting her head, she slapped lightly at his chest, knowing he could feel the grin on her face.

"You're still an idiot," she said, placing a light kiss on his shoulder through his shirt. "But you're _my_ idiot."

"Hm," he rumbled, hands moving lower to massage her hips and rump. "I love you too, bitch."

She giggled and kissed him again, enjoying the feel of his body against hers: the solid weight of his arms around her, the tethered strength of the shoulder against her cheek, the comforting beat of his heart beneath her palm, the warmth of his torso cradled between her legs. She hadn't quite realized until this moment how much she'd missed this—missed him—lately.

Though, now that she was thinking about it—and now that her brain was a little more coherent—she couldn't help noticing something she'd missed in her earlier... er, _distraction_. That "something" being the rather sizeable bulge in the front of his slacks, pressing rigidly against her inner thigh.

Suddenly she was feeling rather heated again, warmth seeping low in her belly. Her grin turned into a bit of a smirk as she said, "Y'know, about those pills…"

His hands stopped moving, and his whole body tensed against her.

"… Yeah?" he said, voice cautious, as though he was trying to calculate just how offended he might need to get.

"Well," she said with exaggerated innocence, "I really think I should judge for myself whether you need them or not. Maybe _I_ should look into it?"

He didn't respond at first. She leaned back enough to look him in the eye, and the bronzed glint she found there sent a storm of flutters through her stomach.

"Oh yeah?" he finally replied, low and gravelly. "What did you have in mind?"

She grinned and shook her head, then kissed him swiftly on the lips. "You'll see."

Placing both hands flat against his shoulders, she gave him a gentle nudge to indicate she wanted him to move. He took a step back, enough to free up her legs, and she slipped off the counter, bare feet smacking lightly against the tiled floor, skirt falling back into place around her knees.

She winked at him as her right hand grabbed the loose tie around his neck, holding it snugly in her fist. Giving it a light tug, she turned towards the kitchen entryway and led him—tie still firmly in hand—down the hallway towards the bedroom.

::

* * *

::

Kagome firmly pushed Inuyasha onto the bed, a soft _whump_ sounding as his back hit the mattress. Then she stepped away and slowly—very slowly, treating him to a mini strip tease—slid her skirt and panties down her hips, her legs, letting them pool on the floor at her feet. Through it all, Inuyasha only had one coherent thought running through his mind: today was a very, _very_ good day. Every single thing he'd been irritated about a mere hour ago went up in flames, along with the rest of his body, when his fully nude and fucking _gorgeous_ wife approached him.

His eyes couldn't drink her in fast enough—the way her dark hair spilled and curled around her shoulders and arms, the flex and bunch of her abdominal muscles as she moved, the slight bounce of her breasts with each step, those damn legs that never seemed to end... and of course the apex where those legs met, which he knew from scent (and earlier exploration) was hot and wet and waiting for him.

His brain nearly short-circuited when she reached the foot of the bed, crawled onto the mattress on her hands and knees, and prowled her way up his body. She didn't stop until she straddled his waist. His hands immediately went to her thighs on either side of him, palms smoothing over her sweet skin, desperate for any contact he could get.

Then she slowly leaned forward—drawing his eyes to the sway of her breasts, the erect points of her nipples—and started unbuttoning his shirt. For every new inch of chest and abdomen revealed, she placed an open-mouthed kiss against it. Collar bones, pectoral muscle, rib cage, stomach, belly button—she kissed every bared patch of skin as she undid the buttons, parting the edges of his shirt, running her hands and nails across his increasingly warm torso. He couldn't repress the shudder that went through him when her nails scratched against his nipples, and his reaction seemed to please her, because she immediately did it again. He growled low in his throat and moved his hands up to her hips, gripping tightly, whether in warning or encouragement, he couldn't quite tell.

She seemed to get more excited and more impatient the further down she went: her fingers worked faster at his buttons, her kisses became rougher. Her lips settled over a patch of abdominal muscle and she sucked at it, hard, pulling his skin into her mouth and between her teeth. In answer, he felt a distinctly vicious throb in his groin, and a snarl erupted from him, echoing through the room. His cock pressed urgently against his zipper, and suddenly all he could think about was having her mouth on it, taking away every one of his frustrations.

Apparently unaware of the blow she'd just dealt to his brain cells, she refocused her attention on ridding them both of his shirt. Finally, with a little cry of satisfaction, she undid the last button, then pulled on the end of his tie to signal that she wanted him to sit up. He rolled his eyes but obliged, raising his torso enough that she could easily slide his shirt off. She had somehow freed his tie from under his shirt collar, so now the deep purple material hung from his bare neck while his once-neatly-pressed shirt went sailing to the floor.

She still held the end of his tie in one hand; he hooked a finger beneath the loop around his neck and arched an eyebrow at her. "I'm not a dog on a fucking leash, you know," he said, the words annoyed but the tone something else altogether.

An impish smile lifted her lips, grey eyes smoky with desire. "But you're such a good boy."

His other eyebrow rose to join the first, and his lip curled, flashing a teasing glimpse of fang. "Bite me."

"Oh, I plan to," she replied, eyes and voice growing even smokier.

And not surprisingly, his cock eagerly concurred with this sentiment, instantly pulsing at her words. Hands firming on her hips, he darted forward with a growl, intent on capturing her mouth with his. But she wasn't having it: she dodged his advance and instead pushed against his chest, trying to force him back down on the bed. The idea that she could physically force him anywhere was laughable, but… she obviously had something planned, if the wicked heat in her eyes and the increasingly musky scent of her arousal meant anything.

They whispered promises, those eyes. Her scent curled in the air around him, tauntingly thick.

Yeah, he _definitely_ wanted to know what she had planned.

With a long groan, he plopped back down against the mattress in surrender, the movement pulling the tie out of her hand. He swallowed thickly before gritting out, "You just gonna talk about it, or are you gonna do something?"

She laughed, the sound somehow soothing and arousing at the same time. "You're always such an impatient puppy."

He meant to snarl at her, but the sound that came out had more in common with a choking whine.

Luckily for him, she wasn't paying much attention by then—she was already shifting her body backwards, down past his hips and thighs to straddle his legs, planting her knees and shins on either side of his own slightly-raised knees. Then her fingers were unbuckling his leather belt, slowly sliding it out of the belt loops before dropping it to the floor. She unbuttoned his slacks; carefully unzipped his fly; hooked her fingers beneath the waistband of both his slacks and the cotton boxers underneath; then, looking him directly in the eye, she lowered his pants and boxers down his hips, tugging them along his thighs, until they bunched around his knees. She momentarily repositioned herself to the side of his body so that she could drag the clothing down to his feet, then off. With a soft rustle, his pants joined the rest of their clothes on the bedroom floor.

She quickly resumed her former straddle, and this time her eyes were focused intently on a very different part of his body—a part which was more than ready for the attention.

 _Shit_ , he thought as her slim fingers wrapped around his erection.

And then he stopped thinking at all.

Her hand stroked up and down the length of his shaft, grip tantalizingly tight. As she did, she dragged her thumbnail up its side—gently applying pressure—following the line of a vein. That nail left a scorching trail in its wake, sending hot bolts of pleasure through his groin, tightening every last one of his muscles. His hips jerked up in reaction, thrusting his dick into her hand. In response she made a pleased, unbelievably sultry sound in her throat, and he had to choke back a groan, feeling as though it should be physically impossible to be so hard and pained and pleasured at once.

Her other hand began massaging his balls, fingers expertly stroking and cupping. She paid special attention to the area where his shaft met his sacs, tracing her nails in circles around the base. Then she smoothed her fingers back to that sensitive place just behind his sacs. She rubbed _that_ spot especially hard and slow, and his hips bucked again. All the while her other hand kept pumping up and down his shaft, rhythm becoming progressively faster.

"Fuck, baby," he grunted, fists clenching in the sheets at his sides, uncaring if his claws ripped holes into the bedding. "Fucking... good..."

She smirked at that, which caused a corresponding throb in his groin.

"It's about to get much better than 'good'," she said, mimicking his earlier words with obvious relish.

He had no time to process that—could only catch the wicked flash of grey eyes—before her head dipped and her mouth descended, sweet lips closing over the head of his cock.

 _Oh holy FUUnngghhh._

That mouth was lethal. Her movements were deliberately slow and erotic, head angled to give him the best eyeful. Inside the damp heat of her mouth, her tongue swirled around his swollen head, the rough texture shooting tiny sparks all the way up his shaft and straight to his balls (which she was still stimulating with her fingers). She delicately pressed the edges of her teeth around the tip, exerting the slightest pressure. Then she sucked at it in a long hard draw, her cheeks hollowing around him.

The sound that came out of him was pure, animalistic desire. Watching him, her eyes darkened to a deep smoky grey as she dipped her head lower and took more of his length into her mouth. Watching his shaft slowly disappearing between her lips set a fire in his gut, had him throbbing and straining up to meet her warmth.

Soon she settled into a rhythm he knew was meant to incite him: head bobbing down, she took as much of him into her mouth as she could; then she'd suck and lick and scrape her teeth along his skin, uttering a deep moan so he could feel her throat's vibrations against him; then she'd ease her head back up, slowly releasing him, suckling as she did; finally, releasing him entirely with a soft wet _pop_ , she'd take a breath and bob back down to do it all again. And the whole time her hands kept moving over him, one pumping his increasingly-rigid shaft, the other massaging and stroking his balls.

It was all fire and electricity, heat and static prickle, equal parts pleasure and ache. His skin burned, sweat beading along his scalp and torso. A pulsing pressure was rising in his groin, tugging at his gut, driving his hips up with every pull of her lips. He knew that if she kept at it, he'd finish in her mouth. She was probably intending that. And tempting as the prospect was—very, _very_ tempting—he had other plans, and a different finish line in mind.

As soon as she next released him—that wet _pop_ ringing through the room—he sat up with speed born of his demonic blood and, moving too quickly for her to track, gripped her shoulders, pivoted her around, and pushed her back into the mattress, completely switching their positions. She lay with her back against the bed, head propped up by their pillows, eyes wide and startled, lips glistening from their previous activity; he hovered over her, his knees and forearms bearing his weight as he allowed his body to press into hers, delighting in every smooth inch of skin, every soft curve.

And now staring down at her face—every contour and line and freckle and pore memorized by heart, a face he knew better than his own—he felt an unexpected upwelling of contentment, followed by the vague but persistent awe—even after years of marriage—that she was there with him. Desired him. Loved him. That awe and contentment mixed with the thick lust churning his blood, and it propelled him forward as he lowered his head and kissed her hungrily, slowly. She immediately opened up to him, her hands rising to cradle his face, and he sank completely into the kiss with a growl.

"Missed you," he mumbled, lips clinging to hers.

"Missed you more," she said, voice hushed and sincere.

A quiet laugh rumbled through his chest. "Have to make everything a competition, don't you?"

"Mhm," she agreed absently. "Someone has to keep you on your toes." As she spoke, her fingers slid down to the tie that he'd completely forgotten he was still wearing and curled around its loop. Tugging gently, she urged him to settle more of his weight against her, and he readily complied, the press of their lips becoming hard and feverish.

His body was completely attuned to hers: every gasping breath, every mewl of pleasure, every slide of skin and trembling muscle. He could smell the heady fragrance of her arousal growing stronger, and it made his fingers flex against the bed, itching to touch again. Breaking their kiss with a parting nibble on her bottom lip, he trailed his lips down her neck, her collarbones, between inviting breasts that he momentarily teased with the barest nip, down her abdomen… his hands trailed after him, mapping her skin like a sacred country. As he went, he gradually rose up onto his knees, until he was kneeling with knees and shins planted firmly between her parted legs, hands resting on her thighs.

The sight of her below him, flushed and panting and bright-eyed—and smelling _so damn good_ —sent a painful pulse through him. His entire body throbbed to match the pulsing beat between his legs, and he thought that he'd never wanted anything quite so much as he wanted to be inside her _right now_.

Meeting and holding her gaze, he hooked his hands beneath her knees and pulled her closer to his body, until her bent knees straddled his hips. She uttered a mind-numbingly sensual whimper and lifted her hips higher so her thighs could more firmly clasp his waist. He very nearly purred, one hand moving to cup her ass, steadying her weight against him, while the other drifted down to grip his throbbing cock. Guiding it closer to the shocking heat between her legs, he parted through her damp curls, and made a point of running his tip—already leaking fluid—up and down the length of her slick entrance, resting just inside her swollen skin, tracing and teasing her.

She made a sound halfway between a moan and a whimper, and squeezed his hips between her thighs. "Inuyasha," she gasped, voice whittled by desire, "You'd better stop teasing me or—"

He was already re-positioning as she spoke, and with a quick smooth thrust, he buried himself inside her body.

There was a split second of complete stillness. Then exhaling a long, guttural groan, he fully seated himself inside her. She arched up, throwing her head back with a gasp, hands gripping at the sheets beneath her.

It was nothing short of perfect: the heat, the slick pressure of her body, the squeeze and pull of her inner muscles rubbing and caressing him. In one moment he was completely inflamed. With a nearly subsonic snarl, he snapped his hips back, pulled almost entirely out of her—relishing in her throaty cry—then drove forward again, thrusting hard and deep.

They slipped into an intimately familiar rhythm. He gripped her ass as her hips rose and fell to match the pace of his thrusts. Her body jolted back with each meeting of their hips, breasts bouncing and legs gripping him tightly to keep her anchored. She was convulsively fisting the sheets on either side of her face, inky hair haloed out around her head, pupils nearly swallowed by smoky grey irises. The sound of skin smacking against skin, her keening cries, and his own rasping grunts blended together like music, adding to his excitement and hazing his thoughts.

His leg muscles burned, straining as he drove forward again and again, into the wet heat of her, thrusts becoming rougher and more erratic. The throbbing in his groin mounted and sharpened, became nearly unbearable. At the same time, the rhythmic clench and release of her muscles became tighter around him, more demanding. She was deliberately flexing around his cock with every thrust, driving him to an edge he could feel in his bones.

Then a particularly mind-shattering squeeze, and a rush of wetness, and she screamed his name. Her scent hit him all at once like a tidal wave, rolling over him as she reached her climax, her entire body shuddering from the force of it.

He inhaled deeply, drawing in and savoring that scent. He dimly heard himself growl out her name before his thrusts became faster, harder. Her inner muscles spasmed around him as she rode out the waves of her orgasm.

And very soon, he felt a blinding surge of heat. An explosive release of pressure. Immediate, intense relief rippling throughout his body. With a low cry of his own, he fell forward, hips wedging tightly between her legs as his forearms landed on either side of her shoulders, his back bowing over her body. His hips rocked forward reflexively as he came inside her, emptying himself completely.

Long minutes passed as he lay there against her, face nuzzling into her neck. At first he was only aware of his own ragged breath, and her engulfing warmth, and the way his entire body felt utterly boneless and relaxed.

Warmth and ease wrapped around him. It was like coming home after a long absence, and he never wanted to leave again.

Slowly, his awareness expanded beyond the fog of his satisfaction. He felt her hands stroking up and down his sweat-dampened back. Her breasts were heaving against his chest as she caught her breath. One of her feet was running up and down his leg in a lazy, thoughtless pattern. Then she released a gusty, undeniably content sigh, and he grinned against her neck.

"Well?" he mumbled into her skin, "What's the verdict?"

She giggled languidly and continued her rubbing. "I'm convinced now—you don't need any help in that area."

The grin stretched wider. "Damn straight," he said, kissing her pulse point.

They lay like that for a little bit longer. Then with a sigh, he lifted his body enough to pull out of her, groaning a little at the loss of warmth. He rolled off and over, laying on his back beside her. Before he could reach out and drag her to him, she had snuggled against his side, laying her head between his shoulder and neck, smoothing her hand over his chest. He draped his arm across her back, fingers rubbing in circles against her skin.

Her fingers fiddled with the tie still around his neck, and he was surprised for a second time that he'd forgotten all about it. Remembering the way she'd led him into the bedroom earlier, he thought maybe ties weren't all _that_ bad after all. Maybe he could stand to wear them a little more often. Just _sometimes_.

Still, his free hand rose to pull the tie over his head and throw it to the floor. She didn't seem to notice the slight jostling, her fingers simply resuming their petting of his chest as her breath evened out and her body melted into him.

"In fact," she hummed after awhile, and he knew from her voice that she was beyond ready for a nap, "that was even better than coffee."

It took him a moment to process the words. Then he snorted and glanced down at the top of her head. "Uh, thanks?"

Her hand was slowing as sleep crept up on her. "Trust me, after the day I've had, that's a high compliment," she mumbled, lashes sweeping against her cheeks as her eyes closed.

He pulled her closer. "Is 'better than coffee' good enough to earn me the title 'Sex God'?" he teased, nose dipping into her hair as his own eyes closed.

He knew she was well and truly out of it when she didn't smack, pinch, or otherwise chide him; she only reacted with a soft nuzzle and a whispered, "Definitely." Her hand stopped moving, and her breathing became slower and deeper.

He chuckled and said, "I'll remind you of that next time you're tempted to send me spam emails."

 _Then again_ , he thought as his mind drifted and his arms tightened around his sleeping wife, _don't think I'd mind another round of convincing._


End file.
